๑(Before Sunrise)๑
by Commonwealths of Neverland
Summary: Although trains came and went, plans changed, planets collided, and that gap between thoughts and desires shrank into a dotted line, their pseudo-cynicism always stopped their "could-be's" from becoming "something more." Yet no matter how rational we think we are, we all hate waking up at sunrise; some of us will spend a lifetime just trying to sit up. [Film Adaptation]
1. ๑ I N T R O D U C T I O N ๑

__(Revised Edition)__

**_\|/.✸.\|/_**

**BEFORE SUNRISE**

**by**

** Flynn Rider**

****.✸.****

**. . . . .**

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**. . . **

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** _\|.✸.|/_**

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**Disclaimer**

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_Any resemblance between the characters and real persons, living, or dead, is a coincidence. Any similitude between literary events and real happenings is a miracle._

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**TABLE OF CONTENTS **.✸.****  
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_Introduction_

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Opening: **The Boy Who Trapped Sunlight**

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Act I: **I Am Free; That is Why I Am Lost **

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Act II: **Rainbows in Grayscale**

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Act III: **If/Then**

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Act IV: **Evening OST: Some Other Me**

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Act V: **People Can Invent the Best and the Worst for You**

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Act VI: **The Environment is Stronger than the People**

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Act VII: **The Veins in Your Palm Are Fault-lines**

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Act VIII: **But You Have Stars Under Your Skin**

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Act IX: **And Your Delusions Are Always Rational **

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Act X: **So Photograph Yesterday for Tomorrow **

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Act XI: **Because All Cynics Are Idealists**

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**_** _\|/.✸.\|/_**_**

**_ Introduction_**

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_"I made a plan to keep you like they did in the movies or songs. _

_I had given you my past and my prettiest thoughts, but I left the rest at the station and when you left that morning, my thoughts have been so ugly ever since." _**~*birdbones**__

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I always wanted to pen a love story that_ "all took place within the time span of a pop song."_ Love is a prescription drug for those who can't cope with reality — and believing _in_ love might be the first sign of a chemical imbalance, _(please make an appointment if you've experienced depression) —_ but a book can make it anything you want it to be.

Salvation.

Demise.

Revelation.

Perversion.

It really all depends on the style of the illusion. Every once in a while, you might even stumble on a story that looks like it's made out of the same organic matter you are. After all, we've all met someone at the book store, the coffee shop, the community college, or a popularly hated job. But how can a writer arrange a _natural disaster_? Do they personalize it — or do they fabricate it? Does the romance need less substance or more stardust? Actually, you need to make it feel like Earth's tectonic plates rammed, broke, and shifted into irregular directions under the feet of two earthquake victims; probably sweep them down a tsumani wave, too. So let's sensationalize the shit out of this:

This is the story of a man and a woman who openly agreed that relationships were plot holes. Although a train came and went, plans changed, planets collided, _seismic waves_ shook them up, and that gap between thoughts and desires shrank into a dotted line, their pseudo-cynicism always stopped their "_could-be's"_ from becoming "_something more's."_ They were too rational for that little plot-bunny, they boasted; too — you know — _grown up. _Basking in the luxury of conversation, champagne, and room service in Norway is easy, but trying to blind the sun and take down the stars just to bring your planets a little closer isn't.

The trouble with romantic chemistry is that it's more of an _astral experience_ than it is a co-written screenplay; at least the latter has a pre-planned process with a contract attached. The former can neither be prevised nor methodized — only felt in the atmosphere by the people in question — and its leads will either seek to rationalize it or edit it.

Now, that's really only the cosmology of this _Big-Bang_, but that's not the story. The story is — no matter how rational we think we are — we all hate waking up at sunrise, and most of us will spend half a lifetime just trying to sit up from the night before.

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_"It's funny, the way you've affected me; you've written all over my heart. In ink. Unerasable, unchangeable. And now the ink is spilling out of my fingers, onto the page, in messy words that just keep trying to tell the perfect story._

[And I'll keep trying.]"

**~*aprilwednesday, "Love Letter to the Future."**

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** . .**

** . .**

** . .**

_~❆ SPECIAL THANKS ❆~_

_To Starbucks and the manufacturers of aspirin pills. ✌_

**_~Flynn Rider ✸_**

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** . .**

**๑۩۩๑**


	2. ๑ O P E N I N G ๑

**_.✸._**

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**_Opening:_**

**AN ODE TO THE BOY WHO TRAPPED SUNLIGHT**

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**_\|.✸.|/_**

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**.i.**

_when I was 9, someone dissected the world in front of me,_

_showed me it was a living, wanting thing,_

_and that I was just a lonely cell, functioning through my dysfunction_

**.i.**

_I have a headache and not enough time to explain the irony of how_

_I want to be every pretentious poet making art out of themselves,_

_cutting open their side and writing in blood and pixie dust;_

**.i.**

_The future has already been written, and I'm stuck here,_

_trying to paint unbeautiful things and make poems out of dirt and relapses_

**.i.**

_understand the significance,_

_of your insignificance_

_and separate_

_from the warmth of human comprehension_

**.i.**

_Acquire talents for:_

_narcissism, eloquence,_

_self-aggrandizement, denial,_

_and holding my liquor._

**.i.**

_"Curing Depression in Seven Easy Steps / __honesty isn't a weakness." __~***intricately-ordinary**_

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**_\|.✸.|/_**

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From the time he was abandoned on the porch of a children's home to the time he exited the stage of _Broadway_, he felt..."other."

_"He's a wonderful actor."_

_"Perfect at improvisational theatre."_

_"Brilliant company for witty and entertaining conversation."_

_"But the public doesn't feel like he's the aristocratic Prince Charming he pretends to be; according to the tabloids, his past is a scandalous one."_

He was deserted at birth by penniless parents on the patio of a _Kinderheim (1)_, turning his childhood into the perfect _sob story_ of a homeless boy who struggled to find his place among one hundred children sharing sixty-five beds. His group home propagated that it, _"provided a safety net for children to experience trusting relationships with peers and adults," _but what he, like all orphans experienced, was a trapped existence where life came down to the constant questioning of a kid's self-worth. He became known as _"that kid"_ at the back of the cupboard, the one always pressing his thumbs into the pages of used paperback novels, content to call _heroic rogues_ his friends because no one else wanted to. There was just something in those _fantasy_ books ― something in those magical illustrations of daring men, gorgeous sorceresses, romantic rescues, lofty castles, and _swishing_ swords ― that made him want to dive between the letters of the word _"fearless"_ and emerge a crystallized man of _invincibility. _

A man who could rescue _himself._

Like _Peter Pan_ with his shadow, he spent long nights sewing himself whole with these cerebral adventures, and took on a lightweight attitude as his best defense against feeling like, _"damaged goods."_ Unlike other kids, he didn't want to play some angsty role in his own life. He wasn't going to be a moping downer who couldn't pull himself up by the bootstraps or fight to co-write his own ending. _Tears be damned_, he'd have a hand in _his_ storyline. This is where he philosophized that all obstacles and road bumps in life could be smoothened over if you just edited out what didn't suit your ideal plot, so to this little _Fitz-boy_, there was no need to entertain any crusty corner of depression if he could replace it with this.

And for a while, it worked like a total charm.

Night after night, he brainstormed over creating better plot development for his character like a writer faced with a blank sheet. Understaffed handlers began housebreaking his bursts of spontaneity when his schemes thickened. Younger boys began surrounding his lap of books like swallows in a nest when he read to them. The latter chirped about how they liked him because he had the shining eyes of christmas lights whenever he became a _swashbuckler_ instead of _Eugene Fitzherber_t, a person the older teens called an androgynous, cowardly, oversensitive "**_Hündin_** (2)" with the English surname,_ "bastard son." _Unfortunately, the plot got derailed when he was thrown into the foster care system, a page in life he spent the next twenty years trying to rip out. Most caregivers were looking for a check instead of a child, others wanted to take physical advantage of him, and he had to suffer an avalanche of monthly rotations with new houses and new faces.

Fitting in with the cagey customs of _German_ culture was hard enough, but that inconsistency of never staying in one home repeated the traumatic separation he had already experienced with his biological family. He came to the conclusion that he didn't belong in the group home or the state-ceritifed foster homes, and when you're an orphan without parents, you're forced to swallow the cold-hard fact that you can't count on anything or anyone except yourself. As a result of this supposition, he started to act out and run away from foster homes to ignore the fear of a new family not loving him. He stole; he hustled; he became disobedient and rebellious to avoid the reality that they didn't ― and never could ― provide him with a _real_ home.

Over the eighteen months that followed, an unexpected family presented themselves to the youth office as American novelists who wanted to adopt him. The husband reminded him of a _Hamlet_ character, but the woman was a conservative _Joan of Arc_, openly gushing:

_ "He reminds me of the best literary character of all time: Huckleberry Finn."_

His other foster parents trashed his theatrics, but this new set wanted to nurture it like a plant.

_"We'll make sure we give him the home he's always wanted."_

After adopting him into _U.S._ citizenship, they made outrageous promises to take him to their self-proclaimed titleholder of storybook magic:

_ "Bergen, Norway; a person can reinvent the stories in the wastelands of their own heart there. It's such an inspiring little place! It will awaken and inspire you to champion your own storybook."_

He never tired of hearing about _Bergen_ or the landmarked stories that inspired their books, and they never tired of hearing about his fairytales, but when weeks turned into seasons, the house they shared became an incubator of family tension, and dynamics changed for the worse. In-laws started to sway their feelings about the adoption by constantly billboarding his flaws whenever he fell short in character, and his adoptive parents started to treat him like a broken teapot that couldn't be fixed.

_ "You were once a golden vase..."_

He didn't want to go back to foster care. He **definitely** didn't want to go back to Germany, so he tried to shimmy into the costume of the_ ideal child_, sowing on anything outstanding in himself that might win him permanent validation. He wanted to be the type of boy that they could boast about and ― _in that way_ ― love_, _because having someone boast about you and _how perfect you are_ meant they _loved_ you ― or at least _that_ you, which was better than no part at all. Behind the double-edged sword of not showing them ― _or anyone_ ― his true self, he steadily questioned whether they _really _accepted him_. _However, the more his efforts gained positive reception, the more he believed that this was the type of relationship he should be crusading for with other people.

Whether as the school fencer, agile acrobat, or witty wordsmith of _Drama Class_, he polished his shiniest traits by throwing his more docile, down-to-earth, and insecure personality to the wayside, and skeletonized himself into a crystallized man of invincibility. His fascination and expertise with flossing his own character made him grand imperial at writing short films and school plays, too. His most notable work was a modern rendition of _Rapunzel_, which he squeezed a spot in as _Prince Charming_. Through these creative coliseums, he found a marble footing in theatre, emerged a starlet, and conquered the face of _Broadway._

...But there's a downside to becoming that famous ― or _that loved_ ― over an identity that's not real...

He started to psychologically inhabit a fake, cardboard world where the sky couldn't crack and the stagelight was the sunlight, making him live his entire existence like an actor. Living your entire existence like an "actor" means you feel employed by family, friends, and lovers to portray a character of total perfection. People would say he was a kind, chatty chap who lightened the room with his big personality and funny jokes, but he never missed an opportunity to rant about how "special" he was. The man didn't self-objectify and showboat himself as _the ideal art piece_ just because he could, though; people aren't lucky enough to be that simple. He did it because the behavior was just a product of the defense mechanism both he and his peers had enabled since that "swashbuckling storyteller" era.

When the curtains dropped and he had to trudge back to _Eugene Fitzherbert, _the _"bastard child"_ from _Krautland _(3), snowballing into a whirlwind of love affairs offered a break from what was failing in his private life. His normal personality put off every frivolous partner he had, but his stage presence personified a fellow married women fantasized about in their husbands: the charismatic, carefree adventurer who could not only steal them away from a boring life, but take on any challenge like some action hero who couldn't be conquered by a blue funk. Women offered him the very light in their eyes under these false pretenses. They gazed at him with that admiring, infatuated look of pure wanting and love. And he bathed in it.

It was then not so much the intimacy he liked, but the fleeting touches of someone emphasizing how, for once, he was utterly and unconditionally _wanted_ by them. _Appreciated_, if only for a role in some grand musical.

_ "It's sad, but it's easier to remember his stage name than it is his real one..."_

And that was when playing _The Swashbuckling Rogue_ of the hit-trilogy _"Robin Hood"_ stopped 'stopping' at "curtain call." Over time, he stopped being himself off stage and stopped being able to form an honest connection with anyone. Losing himself to the materialistic and _money-hungry_ world was his way of associating wealth with an emotional void-filler ― a type of safety-net that could bring betterment, happiness, and self-satisfaction to overcompensate for having **nothing** and **no one** as a boy. It gave him, and his barren life, a lot more meaning, but it was comparable to living as a smirking, wax _Ken Doll_ inside a lonely box with a plastic sheet between himself and the real world.

_"Is that cheeky smile of yours the only smile you're capable of making?"_

Too many people reacted to his true self like customers who'd just bought a beautiful vase ...― only to realize after it'd been taken home that it had cracks, soot, and spiderwebs at the bottom, and he couldn't handle being refunded to the junkyard. His biological parents already did that. So if someone popped the plastic and broke the fantasy, then they would've broken his arteries along with it.

_ "Do you ever get tired of cosplaying as a lie every night?"_

As his cardboard world threatened to collapse on top of him, _Broadway for Charity_ was pitched by his agent and his adoptive mother after he grew socially aloof. But what was the point of forming relationships and interacting normally if people couldn't see, and didn't _like_ seeing, the _real_ you?

_...Including_ you?

None.

But according to his adoptive mom, the charity was sponsoring an organization called _Lost Boys_ for children who had a sweet-tooth for theatre, films, and novels. Most of them apparently kept classics like _The Neverending Story, Lord of the Flies, The Hobbit,_ and _Narina_ in the back of their cupboards. He eventually decided to scroll down the webpage of the organization in the darkness of his condo, finding out more about its _Neverland_ theme through individual porfolios. Website photos were posted with disclaimers for a gallery of at-risk youth in urban communities that housed group homes. Each child was an "unwanted human being" who missed out on family life ― the love that only a biological parent could give, but the staff members didn't try to sell them a "parent replacement" fantasy; they gave them creative outlets for their frustration.

He went through the motions of stage rehearsal in a sort of trance the next day. His contributions to _Lost Boys_ were discreet, but the children replied with letters expressing how much they idolized him, how often they tuned in on his live performances and mimicked his scenes. He mustered all of his strength to visit the residential facility after sleepless nights of _yes_ and _no _―to experience it, to actually be in the heart of it and see how _his_ privileges affected _their_ lives. If there was one thing that could melt his mask like _mac n' cheese_, it was the toothy smiles of trapped _Peter Pans._

When he had enough of staring at his ceiling alone, he crawled out of bed and faced the mirror to feel his face. His countenance would always belong to that award-winning _Broadway_ star, the desired heartthrob whose smile was plastered everywhere in _New York_, but he, as himself, ― and very much like those boys ― had **nothing** and...no one. He'd accompished nothing; earned nothing; overcame nothing. He accumulated all this money ― all this fame ― and still felt empty, still felt _dirty and lost_, with the same childhood void still beating far and wide between his ribs.

_ "...Do you ever wonder what it takes to feel whole?"_

With a hesitant opening, he introduced himself to the youth center rather humbly, requesting a round of applause for the volunteers and staff members who'd done their best to make a special place for _lost boys_ to feel loved and accepted. The younger boys showered him with affection, and for a reason he couldn't understand, he felt more at home with them than with any of the socialites in his life. They became an escapade from his facade, from the artificial life he led, and in him, they found a platform for their own voices to be heard.

_"Do you think everyone deserves to have their story told?"_

The more he visited, the more he decided that such broken faces were far more deserving of a fairy-tale ending than any of the one-dimensional swashbucklers he read about as a child. He wanted to make them feel like they could be seen, felt, and acknowledged. He wanted them to know that they _mattered, _and yes, they _could _rescue themselves from this life_._ They didn't have to wait for a hero. They could become the hero.

This need to father their dreams ― and damn near call their lonely faces his family ― almost blotted out his initial desires to stay a rich and famous swashbuckler, which were fast becoming unfulfilling. What he really wanted was his own pen and paper to tell a story with...and maybe that's what these kids wanted, too. His body would often exit the facility with tingling fingers and goosebumps as he smiled at his car window, thinking with his thumb between his teeth:

_ 'I could write stories for those boys...'_

After he visited the boys for the fifth time, he sat on the floor with them and read a ten-paged children's book from his own divining. However, he didn't so much tell the story as he did act it out by making melodramatic sounds, taking large intakes of startled breath, inventing and improvising scenarios as he received well-timed gasps from his audience. The staff prided him on his ability to create whimsical worlds from oral speech because he was so theatrical, and he pledged to use the charming face of his talkative personality to bring awareness to _Lost Boys_ as a public speaker. Therein the sixth visit he made was kicked off with a quote from his book:

_ "Life is what you make it. If this life isn't the one you want, then the good part is that you get to find a new dream. You can let the life you don't want go by turning away and slamming the door."_

The boys were asked to show their thanks in return. It marked the first time he'd been told:

_ "I like you because of your spirit and your heart."_

The round of applause that ensued shook and warmed his bones, while the burning sting behind his eyelids blinded him from everything he'd done prior to this experience...

_'This is when you stop loving the mask you can never take off.'_

From the time he was abandoned on the porch of a children's home to the time he abandoned the stage of _Broadway_, he vowed to pick up his own pen and become whole.

_ "...It will awaken and inspire you to champion your own storybook."_

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**_\|.✸.|/_**

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**ii.**

_Cry for the inevitable; the way my family never loved me right_

_Talk about the emptiness_

_inside of me and all the things I tried_

_to fill it up with;_

_become a writer, instead._

**ii.**

_"__Before I Can Become a Writer," _**_~*intricately-ordinary_**

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**_\|.✸.|/_**

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**GLOSSARY**

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(1) _Kinderheim:_ German for "children's home."

(2) _Hündin:_ German for "bitch."

(3) _Krautland:_ an offensive term for "Germany," usually to demean someone by claiming they have "Nazi ancestry."


End file.
